


phantom smoke.

by castcommune



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018)
Genre: A character study of sorts, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castcommune/pseuds/castcommune
Summary: Some things, he would say, are just meant to die, and isn't this the sad truth of life, he thinks. Isn't it so tragic, that some tragedy is just written in the stars? That some death is meant to occur? Isn't it a lonely thought, knowing more than half of the people in this room will overdose in the next year? Whether accidental or purposely? // post-show, Luke-centric.
Relationships: + the other siblings too but nell is most important, Eleanor "Nell" Crain & Luke Crain
Kudos: 25





	phantom smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> i was possessed by the Writing Demon (tm) and had to get it out, so I wrote this! Hopefully you all enjoy it, be sure to comment! :)

The air in here is always so heavy, Luke thinks, so thick with guilt, and anger, and something he long ago coined as _ phantom smoke _ . You see, he would say, when you smoke for so long, you start to get used to being engulfed in it. You start to get used to being surrounded by something so light and fragile and insignificant, and that's how you get addicted; that's how you smell cigarettes even when there aren't any around --- you're still swimming in that cloud of your habit, he would say, and some things, no matter how short-lived they may be, just don't deserve to prosper. Some things, he would say, are just meant to die, and isn't this the sad truth of life, he thinks. Isn't it so tragic, that some tragedy is just written in the stars? That some death is meant to occur? Isn't it a lonely thought, knowing more than half of the people in this room will overdose in the next year? Whether accidental or purposely? 

Some habits, he says, need to be broken before they can be re-built. He thinks of his family, sister buried in the soil, mother and father abandoned in a home he dare not speak of. He thinks of his brother, shedding doubt like a second skin, embracing that not all stories are shared with hidden intent, and he thinks of his sisters, bold and brash and both becoming what he can only assume they were meant to be; it's funny, he wants to say, because trauma has always been the foundation of growth. Trauma is what all other traits are built upon, he says, and sometimes you have to get hurt before you can get better --- you have to go up, before you can come back down, and isn't that what recovery is, anyway? It's about embracing the ups and downs, the hills and valleys, and deciding to settle for something a bit more solid. 

The newbies at the facility here always think that he's one of them, just another junkie looking for either a way out or a place to lay low for awhile, and he tries his best not to get offended by this. He understands their situation, he would defend, though he doesn't know every fine detail. He understands the feelings, the physicality of it all --- he knows what it's like to sit on a bed made of vinyl and plastic, knees pulled tight to your chest as you shake, and tremble, and sweat every bit of moisture from your pores. He knows what it's like, to doubt every inch of reality that surrounds you, to crave more than anything just one more hit, one more sliver of happiness. Just one more, so that you can remember the very joy and euphoria that you're trying to get rid of; he knows, and he wants to help them get through this. Every step, every craving, every night, every morning --- it will all be different, he says, but you have to get accustomed to different. He says that sometimes, different is good. He says different is a lot like being re-born each day. It's a lot like looking Death in the eyes, gazes locked and expressions fallen and saying,  _ we were friends once _ . It's okay, he says, to abandon something you once thought you needed to survive.

He's been working at the rehab facility for about eight months now. He isn't sure how he even got the job --- he's always assumed Theo had a hand in that, with her illustrious career as a psychologist, but he's always been just a bit too terrified to ask. He runs the front desk sometimes, helps to introduce the center to families who have nowhere else to turn; he also leads therapy groups from time to time, though it's become more common-place over the past few weeks. He isn't great at it, and he's fairly sure Theo could tell that from a mile away, but he still wants to try; who better to speak of addiction, they say, than someone who spent the better half of a decade overcoming it? He remembers the sleepless nights, the withdrawal creeping into his spine like a disease masquerading as a cure; illness was purged from his body, but it's still hidden inside, deep down, behind the lungs and the heart and the mind. He can feel it gnawing at him sometimes, when the world is just a bit too much to handle. He leaned on this habit for so many years that, despite being clean now for three, he still wants a crutch to carry him through the day; he tells his therapy groups that maybe we never truly escape. Maybe we're always destined to carry this inside of us, but it doesn't have to define us; before you can be clean, he says, you have to forgive yourself. Sometimes that is the hardest part.

He makes the drive to visit his sister's grave every other weekend. He sits at her tombstone, knees pressed into the soft earth, and he always apologizes before anything else. Sometimes, he brings flowers, placing the bouquet over where her body lies six feet beneath him. He says,  _ I'm sorry the flowers are wilting. These just made me think of you _ , and he apologizes for that one, too, faint smile accompanying the words. He knows that he doesn't have to come to her tomb to speak with her, knows that time is confetti that rains upon him every second of every day; she is all around him, at all times, and each mutter beneath his breath is directed to her, each side-eye cast in hopes of her catching it. He sits at her grave for a long time, just breathing the moment in, quietly talking about anything from the weather, to their nieces and nephews, to a song he heard on the radio on the drive over. He says,  _ Stevie and Leigh are expecting again. She wants another girl, but I have a feeling it's gonna be a boy this time. Steve is gonna hate that _ , and he laughs under his breath, smiling to himself. After awhile, and once he's certain he's over-stayed his welcome, he leaves, goes home to his under-decorated apartment, his furniture collecting dust and grime. He sleeps peacefully on these nights, knowing he's done his part as a twin, as a brother.

He tells his therapy groups that guilt is the core of any recovery. Guilt that you missed an event, or ruined a relationship, or missed out on years of your life; guilt, too, that you couldn't get a hold of things until now. He knows what it's like, being smothered by this phantom smoke, but he also knows that those clouds will pass. Not every day will be fun, he says, but any day that you're alive after this will be worth it. Every breath --- with it, you're going to discover that this phantom smoke is nothing more than an illusion, just a trick of the light. That scent of cigarettes and filth can be pulled away, like a curtain on opening night, or a window allowing warmth to wash over you. He says that yes, he knows how cheesy that sounds, but you have to understand --- addiction is a pet that died years ago. It was beautiful, and alive, and caring, but then it died; then it rotted, it grew putrid and cold, and you have to put it to rest. You have to bury the dead; if you don't, you're never going to move on.

He's been working here for just over eight months. He's seen people come and go, then come again; he's seen women who were frail and nothing but bones and stretched skin, men who were weak and still searching for their next high. They wouldn't find it here, so they left in the early morning hours, before anyone else could convince them to stay; Luke tries not to think about where they are now. He looks to the empty chairs, nods as the case worker explains that this person chose to leave treatment, and this person was moved to another facility, and this person, too, chose to leave treatment. He understands, because he used to be that person: the one who never stayed, the one who never even tried. He can't really fault them for this; he wants to --- yes, sometimes he wants to scream,  _ why won't you try to get better? why haven't I fixed you yet? _ \--- but he is meant to be the responsible one here. He cannot allow anger to cloud his judgement because he, too, would roll his eyes at a rehab employee who yells at someone for not changing overnight. He tells those who stayed,  _ you are going to want to leave. You are going to want to quit _ , but he says that eventually, you will learn how to win. Eventually, this phantom smoke will clear, and you will be left with only the sun, the air, the repetitive normalcy of life. 

He visits his sister's grave sometimes, when the weather is just right. He Skypes with his brother frequently, laughing at the poor service from Luke's shitty wi-fi, and he calls Shirley and Theo almost every week. He goes to work, he goes home, he goes grocery shopping. The seasons change and the world moves on; he still carries addiction within him, a parasite burrowed between ribs and inside his bloodstream, but he knows to not feed it anymore. He breathes in, and he smells something close to peace; not quite, but close enough to settle. He tells his therapy groups,  _ life won't always be amazing. Life won't always be good to you, but you can always be good to yourself.  _ He says that this is all it takes, sometimes; to be kind to yourself means to forgive yourself, to wash away the anger, and the guilt, and the pain. It means to start again, even if that means doing it every day. 


End file.
